But you have no seasons, 
say people from snow country, 
where wind chill drops 
to 40 below, explaining why 
they don't live in California 
or why they're leaving. 

I have seasons, 
when acacias float like lemon 
clouds along the highway, 
calla lilies a creamy meander 
beside a run-off ditch, 
the pyracantha berries left 
from December orange flames 
against a rotting fence, while 
daffodils lift golden cups in 
spongy, greening meadows. 
 

And I have seasons 
when rain sheets down and 
rivers rise and crest to 
flood the valley farms, drown 
livestock, when trees topple, 
hillsides run rivers of mud 
into foundations, bury 
cars and highways, when levees 
crumble, and more of California 
falls off into the sea, our 
days a perpetual dusk. 
 

To know my seasons, 
how much weather must I have 
before becoming aware 
that maple branches are bare 
of leaves, the rust of 
October gone from dripping 
redwoods and underfoot 
the first curled buttercup 
of a wintry spring? 

 

Copyright © (1997) Fionna Perkins
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